Let's Start a Bet
by SevLovesLily
Summary: It's rather obvious to everyone around them that Sherlock and John are in love. What starts out as Lestrade contemplating the status of their relationship turns into a full-out bet for the whole of Scotland Yard - well, really more of a contest. And the goal? To get Sherlock and John together. Everyone wants to win that money... but they want those two to start snogging even more.
1. Matchmakers

**Hey look at that, I'm finally writing a multichaptered Sherlock fic. I originally wanted to do a kidlock thing, but this idea popped into my head in the middle of Physics class and I feel that it's one of the greatest ideas I've ever had. It'll be the first comedy fic I've written, as well as the first time I've written any Sherlock character but John and Sherlock. I'm really excited to finally do something centering around Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard and all their shenanigans.**

**Also, even though it's a comedy, beware of smatterings of angst. I see Lestrade as a pretty sad character, underneath it all. It's like when there's comic relief in a tragedy, except backwards.**

* * *

"Really, Lestrade—you'd think that with your amount of experience in the field, you and your teams would be able to spot the obvious clues that mark the difference between a break-in and a domestic murder…."

Greg huffed and hid his annoyance behind a sip of coffee, but he was too used to Sherlock's rude comments to feel genuinely offended anymore. He'd accepted long ago that Sherlock was far too intelligent for his own good, and it would take something more powerful than a god to get him off his high horse and maybe get him to stop acting like a five year-old.

But then he'd realized relatively recently that maybe all it took was an army doctor with a rather tough exterior—especially now, since he saw John give him a "not okay" look and Sherlock roll his eyes. He might not have been the world's only consulting detective, but Greg still had an eye for details.

"Yes, well, it's all set and done—the wife has been arrested and her supposed lover is in custody. So all I really need you for at this point is to look at the case details and maybe clear some things up for us—"

But before he could finish, Sherlock Holmes was straightening his scarf and turning around to head toward the door of the office, pulling a slightly disgruntled (but not exactly confused, Greg could tell) John away from the desk and the case file he was opening.

"I don't have time for trivialities—"

"Sherlock!" Greg said, exasperated.

But he continued leaving and simply explained the rest as he did. "I realized the wife's sister was unknowingly in on it, but I don't see why that matters because there's no legal ramifications for having your sister take a poison from you." John looked between them as he was urged out of the office, and Greg simply stepped out to slump his shoulders in defeat and watch them leave.

As though he could sense him watching (well, he had probably figured it because he hadn't heard the office door slam shut yet), Sherlock called back without looking, "I've really got to be off, Lestrade—things much more important than petty murders to take care of."

It was a bit faint at this distance now, but he could have sworn that he saw John punch him in the arm and heard him say, "You liar, you haven't got anything to do."

When they got to the far end of the floor and were at the door that led into the corridor, he could distinctly see Sherlock opening the door and letting John go first. That hit him as quite an extraordinary thing for them to do, and when they were gone from sight, he simply leaned back against the threshold, folded his arms, and smirked. That John Watson had really changed him, hadn't he?

And he was truly glad to see it. The first time he met Sherlock was when the man had walked right onto a crime scene to tell the Met that they'd been idiots about that old serial killer case and that all the facts were right there in front of them, but they just couldn't see it. He'd arrested him for trespassing. The second time he met him was when he'd realized that a lot of the things that mad had said were true and then broke his own rules to get Sherlock out of jail and get him to look at the evidence again. After that, Mycroft Holmes had made a point of contacting him (if you could even call arranging a clandestine meeting in an empty warehouse without his actual consent that) and telling him about Sherlock's drug problem and why he apparently needed to be careful.

The man really was a genius, but he was an arrogant sod and emotionally a five year-old. And not much had seemed to change about him these past few years—until John Watson just came along out of nowhere, that is.

Sally interrupted his train of thought by coming around the corner with a few files in her hand. "Is the Freak gone?"

Greg felt he really should have told her to stop calling him that, but there was just no point in trying to get her to respect him.

"Yeah—walked right out on me, too, the wanker. But if he says we haven't got anything else significant going on with the case, then I suppose we've got to leave it…." Sally gave him a look of disbelief, but before he could say anything, he glanced at the door he'd been facing for the past minute and decided to say, "Hey, if you didn't _know_ Sherlock, would you think—well, would you guess that he and John Watson were… I dunno, boyfriends?"

She snorted and folded her own arms. "I _do_ know him, and I still think so…. Have you seen how he'll have absolutely no regard for John's personal space and John'll just let him stand there? Half the time we see them they're close enough to be kissing. They might as well be having constant eye-sex in the middle of Scotland Yard."

Greg let out a short, breathy laugh at her clear enthusiasm for the subject. "You almost sound like you're happy for him."

"What—no!" she insisted, her cheeks going slightly pink (though it was hard to tell for her skin tone). "I just know the obvious when I see it."

"Sherlock would argue with that, I think," he laughed.

"Well… I doubt even the Freak has noticed this yet, since I think we'd all know if he and John were actually _together_…. I mean, I know a few people in here have asked, and he always denies it. But—well, come on, they've _got _to at least be in love with each other. It's kind-of-actually-very obvious."

Greg chuckled again, really unable to stop thinking about it now. Was it weird of him to get overly interested in someone else's relationship? Or—whether or not they were in one, really. He couldn't deny that it frustrated him that John and Sherlock weren't officially a thing yet, even though he knew it was none of his business and that it kind of even went against the personal morals he should have had as a policeman.

Then again, he supposed it could have also been some sort of desire manifested by his mind to take the place of his rapidly failing relationship with his wife. If he couldn't have a romantically fulfilled life, he at least wanted the people around him to have them.

"Did I just hear _the Freak_ and _love_ in the same sentence?"

And seemingly out of nowhere, Anderson had arrived to butt into the conversation. Not that Greg really minded, as he and Sally were both being unproductive anyway—but having Sherlock around so much had made him find Anderson a bit annoying.

Neither of them did anything but open and close their mouths like fish for a second, as it was slightly awkward to explain that you were hypothesizing on the relationship status of two men, both of whom either denied being gay or having any sexual attraction at all—but then Sally figured it out.

"Well, perhaps not actually _love_, since I'm pretty sure he's not capable of that, but Holmes has definitely got a thing for John."

Anderson smirked, and for a second it looked more like a "_you're looking really attractive today_" smirk than otherwise. Greg realized he didn't find the idea of Sally and Anderson together as fulfilling as Sherlock and John.

"He brings John with him everywhere like a little pet," he agreed with a laugh, and Greg frowned a bit at the derisive tone in it. "He's got a _thing_ for him, all right—it's called possessiveness. That's the closest thing a psychopath—oh wait, sorry, _high-functioning sociopath_—can feel to love. Really, Lestrade, I don't see why you think it's safe to let him—"

At that point Greg was just getting fed up, and he suddenly remembered the—

"Sherlock jar, Anderson. Go put a pound in," he told him, feeling that he sounded like a stern father. The man in question made a sort of "frustrated child" face and marched, a bit hunched over, to the huge glass jar in the office they were standing in front of.

A while ago, Greg had gotten tired of hearing complaints about Sherlock when the man wasn't even on the premises, so he'd decided to start a jar in which anytime anyone said anything unnecessary and negative about the man—especially if they regarded _his _judgments as well, they'd have to put money in the jar. Whenever it got full, he donated it to charity. He'd always wondered how Sherlock would feel if he knew that there was technically a donation fund in his name—well, he _would _have wondered if he wasn't sure that Sherlock must have already known about it.

He watched Anderson just to make sure that he actually _did_ put the note in the jar, and then he was surprised when the man returned from the office with a bit of a grin that looked _ready_ to just start something.

"Alright—if we're still paying just to talk about Holmes, why don't we make it more productive and turn it into a bet, huh?" Anderson already looked pretty enthusiastic about this, and Greg noticed that smiling didn't look all that good on his face. _Maybe if he'd get a bloody normal haircut…._ "We'll bet on when Watson and Holmes start shagging—or whatever the Freak equivalent to sex is."

"Ooh—that actually sounds like a good idea…," Sally agreed, her voice getting higher in pitch in her excitement as he turned to her boyfriend. "You and I should be a team."

It registered to Greg that he should have called this off before it even started and just told them both to get back to their desks at the mention of shagging, but he found himself intrigued and let himself fold his arms to show it.

"Whoa, hold on there—then who else is on my team? I don't—wait, no, why are we already talking about teams?" Finally, he caught himself—not necessarily realizing that this bet idea was ridiculous, but just feeling irresponsible for having stood around when there were much more important things that should have been demanding his focus. Such as the safety of London. "Ugh. Alright. Well. You two, we can talk about this later, but for now, just… Donovan, I'm sure there's case files you need to sort, and Anderson, you've got something or other to analyze. Off you pop."

For the second time in one evening, they looked like disappointed children. But really only for a split second, since they were also professionals who knew how to do their jobs, whatever Sherlock had to say about it.

Once they were leaving his sight, Greg sighed and returned to his office, shutting the door with a sigh. The idea of this bet and just Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in general really made him hope that there weren't any crimes his division covered for the rest of the evening. His mind was simply too preoccupied.

* * *

The traffic the next morning was terrible (but then again, when was the morning traffic in London _not _terrible?), not to mention the ache in Greg's back from having slept on the couch again. His wife hadn't made any implication that she didn't want him sleeping in the same bed—it was _him_ who didn't want to sleep near her. He just felt that bed-sharing was intimate, and he didn't want that with a woman whom he knew was cheating on him.

But as he drove to Scotland Yard, Greg gradually put on his _Detective Inspector_ persona as he did every day. It wouldn't be professional to let his personal problems affect even the slightest of feelings while on the job.

Right when he'd entered the building, he briefly passed someone he recognized from Dimmock's division—or it would have been brief if the man hadn't stepped back and said—

"Morning, Lestrade—I heard you were starting a bet?"

Rather surprised to hear that, he woke up as fully as possible in that second and frowned. It only occurred to him that they must have been referring to yesterday a second later. "What—who told you that?"

"Finnigan," he told him, grinning. "Just passed him on my way down on the lift. Well, good luck with that—but I've got several hours of sleep to catch up on after the night shift…. I'd rather like to know what happens with Holmes and Watson in the end, though!" he called out to finish as he left. Greg was left staring in his direction, and things started to piece together in his mind.

At least two people who couldn't possibly have even overheard the conversation about a bet over John and Sherlock knew about it. He had not told anyone about it. So that left two suspects, a man in a woman in particular, and he was really beginning to get rather annoyed with them.

Disgruntled, Greg huffed and jerkily adjusted his suitcoat before heading over to the lift and pressing 7. He walked out of the lift a minute or so later as though he'd expected to automatically be bombarded with people, Sally and Anderson included.

Well, it wasn't sudden, at least. But the first desk he passed, one of the members of the drug forensics team stood up and said, "Lestrade—what's the word on that bet people've been talking about? Are you actually—"

"Spare me a minute, please, I need to find Donovan," he interrupted, a bit too frustrated to care about being rude at the moment. Somewhat frantic, he kept up a fast-walk to her office, and seemingly everyone he passed mentioned "something about Holmes and a bet."

When he was finally able to open Sally's door (which he did without knocking), the frustration dissipated at the sight of Anderson leaning over her desk with a grin that made him uncomfortable. But then, as they both looked toward him with a sense of being caught, he'd forgotten about nearly walking in on a very unprofessional snog-fest and also the fact that he'd walked in without knocking.

"_How_ many people did you _tell_?" was the first thing he said, sounding exasperated, though not exactly angry. He saw realization and a bit of guilt in their eyes, then looked down briefly to sigh at the floor. "Good Lord, you two—it was just a casual evening chat, and now everyone's expecting me to do something about it!"

Their looks of slight shock turned to sheepish smiles, and Sally finally stood up from her chair and walked around the desk to explain properly—hand gestures and everything.

"Well—for the record, Lestrade, we _did_ think you were serious…. You seemed rather on board with the whole idea, and we were excited."

He couldn't even deny that much, but the issue still stood: "You didn't answer my question—_how many people_, you two?" Greg looked between them and made sure to give them a disapproving frown.

"Perhaps, well… everyone," Anderson decided to answer, standing up straight as well. He re-tied his tie while he was at it. "Or at least, everyone knows, now. We told a few people, they told others, and _they_—"

"Yes, I understand how this works," said Greg dryly, his hands on both hips now as he glanced mindlessly around the room, trying to figure out a solution.

Well, it was pretty obvious now that he thought about it—

"I don't see what the problem is, really. It's pretty obvious that everyone in Scotland Yard wants the Freak and his Doctor to shag." Sally shrugged and leaned back to sit on her desk, and Greg looked her sharply in the eye for using the word "shag." She could at least have just said "_be together_."

"I'm not saying they don't, and I don't know whether or not I should be slightly disturbed by that," he told her. _Or glad, actually._ Since he clearly wasn't the only one minorly obsessing over someone else's relationship. "But you have to admit it's a bit unprofessional."

"_Actually_," Anderson started, raising a finger pointedly and stepping towards him, "I looked it up last night. There's absolutely nothing even _alluding_ to there being a rule against the coworkers in Scotland Yard being part of a bet, even if work-related. And Holmes isn't even officially work related, so for the law's sake, this is personal and perfectly allowed."

He smiled, clearly feeling proud of himself, and Greg sighed again. Not that he really wanted to, but he couldn't think of any other excuse to not to it. So he stuffed his hands into his pockets and relented.

"Fine. And you know, this is all on my head. So if this somehow _does_ start something, I'll be in trouble and it's going to be on your conscience."

Straightening his suitcoat again, Greg pushed Sally's door open—and was promptly stopped by one of the receptionists.

"D. I. Lestrade, I've been hearing about a bet—is it true that—?"

"Yes, it is, and don't worry, I'll get it cleared up soon enough—actually, you know what—could you ring up everyone on the floor in an hour and have them come to Conference Room D?"

* * *

In his seven years so far of having had this promotion to Detective Inspector, Greg Lestrade had never seen a Conference Room so full and excited. Not even back when those serial suicides were going on. Of course, though, this was a different sort of excitement.

Sally seemed to be grinning more than anyone. Meanwhile, Greg couldn't help but feel a sort of nervousness—not from having to talk to everyone or anything ridiculous like that (he hadn't had that fear for a good twenty-five years), but because he somehow feared that Sherlock might be able to deduce what was going on from all the way across London. He honestly wouldn't have been surprised if the man just walked right through that door in the middle of all of this.

No more than a minute later, it seemed that everyone was here now, so he made no hesitation to clear his throat loudly. Everyone who was talking excitedly to others shut up and looked eager to him at once. It was nice to know he could command this much order and respect—more so than he did while they were on cases.

"Alright, as most of you probably heard, I've decided to start a bet. For some of you, that's all you heard. And some of you heard it was concerning the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson—speaking of which, I'd like to advise you _not_ to put money down for a bet that hasn't even been confirmed yet. For those of you who've done that… I returned the money to your own mailboxes." He refrained from looking at anyone in particular, but he did notice them go a bit red and shuffle uncomfortably.

"But as most of you are aware," he went on, "this"—he gestured to the jar on the table to his left—"is the Sherlock jar. Plenty of people in here, one time or another, have put money into it. And I'm sure some people have purposely said unnecessary things about Sherlock simply to have the excuse to donate. Which is great, by the way. But because this is in place, Donovan, Anderson, and I have developed another idea as to what to spend our money on, Sherlock-wise.

"Now, I'm sure I hardly even have to mention it. But, well—a show of hands, who here has seen Sherlock and John either here at the Yard or on a scene?" Every single person raised their hands. "And who here has at least _wondered _at some point or another where they were in a romantic relationship?" Once again, he had everyone. A smile twitched on the edge of his lips, and Greg continued: "Excellent. Then we're all on board here. The bet is going to be on _when_ Sherlock and John officially get together—just hold on, I'm getting to details," he added as some people squirmed where they stood, quite obviously holding back questions.

"As far as we know, our favorite arrogant sod and ex-army doctor are no more than flatmates and _very_ close friends who are most likely in love with each other. But then again, I can't really say that I expect Sherlock Holmes to engage in the physical normalities of relationships, so who knows? But I'll get to that, too. What I've figured," he said as he pulled up a yellow notepad, "is that I'll set a five-month mark. Five months from now, that is. And everyone puts down a date with their name, along with the money they're putting down. You can change your date so long as nobody's won and your date hasn't passed yet, and obviously, whoever ends up right gets all of the money. Sound good?"

A couple people frowned slightly, and CID officer Stoker stepped forward to say, "So we're all just supposed to wait around for five months on the off-chance that Holmes realizes his feelings for Watson and snogs him? What about proof, too? Are we allowed to interfere?

Actually, that was a rather good idea. Suddenly land mines were going off in his brain and setting a chain of them, and Greg was almost pleased enough with himself for having this idea to jump. But he refrained from doing that and instead just clapped once, loudly, to dispel the sudden conversation around the room.

"New plan, then! We can't just wait around for Sherlock and John to happen—so, what do we do? We _make_ Sherlock and John happen. Now, let's see… there's going to be two sides to this bet. There'll be the '_matchmakers'_ and the audience. The matchmakers are allowed to interfere in Sherlock's and John's lives in order to either help them realize their feelings and to catch proof of a romantic relationship between them. The _audience_, however, will be those who choose not to take any initiative themselves—but they can choose a matchmaker to place their money on and thus technically be on their team.

"Now… er—rules. Right. We'll definitely need some of those." Greg looked quickly to both sides until he remembered that there was a notepad in his hands, and people could practically see the lightbulb above his head as he grabbed a pen from his pocket and began to write as he spoke, bulleting each rule. "First off, this all starts officially _tomorrow_. Nothing goes on today, or else it doesn't count. Oh—and obviously, Sherlock and John cannot, under _any_ circumstances, know about the bet. I know it might be difficult simply because it's Sherlock, but we all need to keep the utmost secrecy. So telling either of them directly would put you—well, all of us, out of the running. Er—oh, and every single person who decides to be a matchmaker _must_ put down their name and at least fifteen quid beforehand—and anyone who chooses to be in the audience has to put down at least ten quid and they aren't allowed to do anything practical. If they decide to do anything, they have to change their status to a matchmaker and give up an extra fifteen. The audience can also change the matchmaker they're rooting for so long as no one's actually won yet. And of course, no one is allowed to interfere with another matchmaker's plans."

"Can matchmakers be in teams?" Sally interjected before he could go on, and when he looked back at her, she added, "As in, they work together to do the matchmaking—not counting the audience."

After pausing for a moment, Greg nodded and marked that down. "Alright, matchmakers are also allowed in teams. I'll say… alright—no, there's no limit to the number of people on a team, but of course I wouldn't advise it if you don't want to share the winnings with too many other people. Ooh—also, for strategy's sake, I suppose, teams can merge if everyone of both parties, including the audience, agrees." He heard a whispered exclamation of "Yes!" from Anderson, which confirmed his assumptions about Sally's request—and then another question from someone in the crowd:

"What exactly does 'evidence' encompass?"

Greg looked up to see who it was—Gideon—and think for a few seconds. He figured it _was_ a rather important thing to have a rule about…. "Anything that proves, without a doubt, that Sherlock and John are romantically involved. This can be—I dunno, pictures of them kissing or doing something else intimate—but actually, _please_ don't get pictures of anything sexual, even if it's unintentionally that you see it. Because, well, it's illegal—and because I _do_ respect the both of them enough not to invade their sex lives. Also, an audio recording of something they say either to you or each other would work if they say something regarding their relationship. And you know what, all this being said, all evidence will be tossed in a fire once it's all over. Just to make sure that no one gets blackmailed.

"As far as interfering goes, everything is allowed except mentioning the bet to either of them, as I've said, and… anything that interferes with a case. Oh, and I don't suppose I _should_ have to mention this, but tricking either of them to say something in a context that doesn't at all prove anything doesn't count either. That includes physically forcing their heads together so they'll kiss or what have you.

"Now, I can't really set a time limit—but that's mostly because I don't believe it'll take more than five months to do this. So everyone who bets, they'll be betting on the _team_ and not a date. Also, I suppose that you're perfectly entitled to drop out of the bet, but you don't get your first deposit back. Teams must sign in together, and I've got to know for sure that everyone actually _knows_ what team they're on, if any. And as Detective Inspector, I'm assigning myself as the designated person to ask about the rules of this bet and otherwise. So… any other questions?"

One woman raised her hand slightly in order to be acknowledged and began talking a second before he looked at her. "Is this restricted to Scotland Yard, or could others who know Holmes and Watson be a part of it?"

He had his usual _good question_ expression as he capped his pen with purpose and told her, "Anyone can be involved, so long as they still sign up for the bet. Just make sure to bring them here on your off time, so they can sign up.

She resumed her previous sitting position, and everyone was focusing on him and silent. So Greg decided to say one last thing before accepting the sign-ups: "Anyone who fails to comply to all of these rules will either be disqualified entirely, or their attempt to win will not count. If you think you've got proof, bring it to me at once. And… now that we're at the last of it, I'm expecting most of you to choose your groups in between now and tomorrow—if not now and the next twenty minutes. But of course it's not necess—"

Letting himself get quieter, Greg decided that the rules were done with. Most people were already discussing teams with each other, and a couple strategy-sounding words even stuck out to him already. It was to be expected.

And it wasn't all that unexpected, he later supposed, that Anderson approached him to ask, "So does this mean the Sherlock jar isn't a thing anymore?"

* * *

**Whoop, there it is. And just so you know, my headcanon full name for Anderson is Anderson Anderson. You know, like Montgomery Montgomery. His parents were either stupid or cruel. (Actually, my old woodshop teacher's name is Steven Stevens. Not even kidding.)**

**I'm not sure how long this fic is going to end up being, but I do promise to carry it out! And in the meantime, reviews are greatly appreciated, so tell me what you think! :D**


	2. Something Spectacularly Gay

**Sorry this took so long to update, but I have to admit that I didn't really see it as a problem because the first chapter already had 15 reviews and over twice as many follows by itself. And just. Woah. I've never had a story get so much feedback after just the first chapter before. I love you guys.**

* * *

"Sorry, we're trying to minimalize our team. Just keeping it between us two. Is that alright?"

Sally looked at him apologetically, though Greg could tell she really wasn't all that sorry. Sure, they were friends, but not quite as close as they could have been, and this involved strategy. They couldn't have very big teams. Besides, it was good to have a bit of competition against them.

Yes, competition. That completely turned Greg's mind off of being rejected. He nodded understandingly and wished them good luck, then finished writing them down. No one seemed to be approaching him at the moment, so he set off around the room in search of a potential teammate for himself.

It occurred to Greg for a moment while he was briefly searching that he probably ought to sit this one in the Audience considering his Detective Inspector status and workload, but he couldn't bring himself to do that. He wanted to take direct action on this.

Only a minute or so later, he managed to get a solid two-man team. And that was because the other man was one of his best mates—Anthony Hopkins. The bloke wasn't the smartest cop in the Met, but he'd managed the job and they'd been good friends since the beginning.

"We've got this bet completely in the bag, Greg," he said in a low voice, grinning. "No one else can compete properly. You know Holmes and Watson better than anyone, mate…."

"Yeah, well, not by much," Greg admitted dryly. "You've seen how Sherlock is—and considering his whole 'mysterious' thing, there's not much he lets anyone know."

"'Cept John Watson," Anthony laughed, and Greg smiled in agreement. Yeah, he imagined that John knew a great deal about Sherlock already. More than that insufferable asshat had let anyone in Scotland Yard know in the past _five years_. Just went to show that feelings came with the right person, not time. And that Sherlock clearly only worked for them because London was the best place for good cases. No sentiment involved. Not that he'd hoped.

"We really do have a fair game with everyone, though," Greg went on, sticking his pen in the clipboard and then stuffing one hand in his pocket, looking around at the conversation a little. "I hardly know anything that other people don't. Nothing that would be relevant, I mean. Except, well… I do have the advantage of being friends with John, I suppose. But I'm sure other people are going to make up for that in ways."

"See, Lestrade, I'd call you out for unfair advantages if I wasn't so sure that you were correct on that last statement."

That was most certainly not Anthony's voice—it was off to the right, and it belonged to someone blonder and younger and taller than him. In spite of the maturity he was supposed to be keeping hold of as an adult, he frowned and huffed for a second before turning completely around on the ball of his foot.

"Gregson. How'd your division get in on this?"

He'd told Sherlock once or twice: _Real people don't have arch enemies. At most, they have a rival, but those are usually because of grudges, and grudges are immature and unhealthy to hold onto._ Of course, he'd already known that Sherlock was very emotionally immature. The thing was, though, that Greg Lestrade was a bit of a hypocrite.

He might not have called him an arch enemy, but Tobias Gregson wasn't quite just a normal rival, either. Neither party honest-to-God hated the other, but the tension was there. They disliked each other. And they strove to outdo each other, in a way. Tobias would tease him that it's because in the few times that Sherlock's taken on one of _his_ cases, he seemed to favor him over Greg. And that was somewhat true, but it wasn't the extent of it.

"Do you actually think it's unlikely that word would have gotten around to my division?" Tobias said smoothly, using that condescending undertone that reminded him so much of Sherlock. It almost seemed deliberate. "Dimmock's here, too. Not all of us are completely busy."

Acknowledging him with a "Hm," Greg merely stared with narrowed eyes for the next couple seconds before figuring out exactly what he wanted to say:

"I suppose you want to put yourself down as a team, then?" He pulled the pen out of the clipboard and pressed the tip to a line on the form he'd made, pretending to write. "Team three: Gregson, and his oversized ego."

The man in question raised an amused eyebrow, as though to refer to the fact that Sherlock Holmes, Greg's friend, had an ego large enough to fill ten men and then some. _Yes, well,_ he thought in response, _Sherlock is the only one at the Yard allowed to have an ego._

"Actually, make that Tobias Gregson, Paul Baynes, and Garth Bradstreet. We're a team."

Just as he was about to open his mouth and dryly ask if those other two men were even here, they sauntered in seemingly out of nowhere, ghosts of smirks on their faces. _What._ It was like Tobias had made a cue ready for them and planned it all deliberately. Of course. Everything Tobias did was deliberate, just like Sherlock. But it still seemed like something that no one would do on purpose unless they were in a film.

_We're not in a bloody film,_ he mentally asserted, _no fair._

Silently, and with Anthony still standing by and just looking disapprovingly at the team, Greg wrote them down and not-so-politely held his hand out for their fee. Returning the silence, they all handed it over and, rather than promptly walking in the other direction, remained for another few seconds.

"May the better Detective Inspector win," Tobias said, and Greg scoffed outwardly at the cliché. He took the other man's hand in a firm handshake anyway and stared after him for a moment after he started walking away.

As he cooled down, he remembered that this was all over a bet that, for all intents and purposes, was centered around making two men realize their homosexual love for each other. At which he couldn't take himself seriously anymore and just gripped Anthony's shoulder for support while he laughed for several seconds.

* * *

Most of the teams were chosen within the next fifteen or so minutes, and the room seemed to be about half split between Matchmakers and Audience. It turned out to be six teams: Three of them were duos—Sally and Anderson, Greg and Anthony, and then Alec MacDonald and Whitney Mason. Greg was pretty sure that those two might have been dating, themselves.

And then, of course, there was Tobias's trio. The other trio were the Jones' brothers, Althelney and Peter, and Sam Brown. All good men, and all on much friendlier terms with Greg than Tobias. Travis Forrester decided to work alone. A lot of people seemed surprised that he'd opted to participate in this as a matchmaker at all. He didn't get on with many people, and it was actually kind of surprising that he hadn't ended up being homophobic or even just apathetic about Sherlock and John.

"Alright, is everyone decided on their teams? Okay. Good. Now the remaining people—the Audience—need to tell me what team they're rooting for and put down their money."

Greg retained his authority despite the ridiculousness of this whole thing, and everyone who was left signed up for one of the teams. Sally and Anderson's team had three people betting on them, and then both Greg's and Tobias's teams had four each. The other three got one or two each, and with this it was pretty obvious what everyone thought of each of them. Especially that Tobias was equally as skilled as him, in all their eyes. It annoyed him, but only slightly. Okay, maybe more than slightly.

It surprised him that Dimmock and Patterson both opted to be in the Audience rather than actually be out there to actively participate, since they were both inspectors, but then he supposed that some people wouldn't want the workload of this bet on top of what they already do.

When everything was cleared up, everyone else was kind of scattered. Greg checked his watch. They'd been in here about twenty minutes now.

"Alright, now that everything's settled, everyone get back to work—we can't afford to waste much more time in here!" he announced, and everyone was heading out the door before he even finished. "And don't forget that this doesn't officially start until tomorrow!"

It was going to be difficult, balancing this bet with police-work, but it would be worth it, Greg was sure. He tucked the clipboard under his arm and returned to his office, shutting the conference room door behind him.

* * *

As soon as he'd gotten off his shift (though those were just office hours—a Detective Inspector was never really off-duty), Greg had called up Anthony and invited him out for a drink to discuss tactics, since he'd seen that others were doing the same thing.

"We're not actually going to drink much—I mean, I'd invite you out somewhere else to discuss things, but two men anywhere but a pub are generally assumed in a relationship—"

"Yeah, I getcha, mate," Anthony laughed, sliding into his seat. "…You know, I bet Holmes and Watson probably eat out together a lot."

Greg thought about it and grinned. "I know they do. I hear Sherlock suggest restaurants for them to eat at after cases all the time. Hold on—we could do that. Figure out where they eat normally, and just stake it out."

"Don't they live next to the Speedy's on Baker Street? I'd imagine they'd go there…."

"Yeah—yes, this is good. Oh!" At that moment, a rather busty woman had come up to their booth to ask what they'd like to drink, and they both looked to her as though they were guilty of something, though trying to hide that. It was just difficult not to be paranoid that you were being overheard by the wrong people when you were doing something involving Sherlock Holmes. "Just—er, Newcastle, please."

"Same as him," Anthony nodded, and the woman just smiled at them before leaving to get it.

There were several seconds of silence between them while they waited for two glass bottles to be set down on their table, and they thanked the barmaid with appreciative smiles before returning to their topic. Greg watched her leave for a moment, though, wondering if he'd have any luck with getting a date with her. She seemed kind of interested. Maybe a nice woman would get his mind off his wife and help him come to terms with the fact that they needed a divorce.

"So," Anthony said after a swig of his beer, snapping Greg's attention away from the woman whom he decided was too young for him anyway. "On our off time, we can just sit in Speedy's or whatever other place they might be eating and wait and see if they do anything spectacularly gay together."

Greg snorted into his beer and had to set it down again. "As if everything they do isn't spectacularly gay. But yeah—sounds like a plan. Except I don't think it would be a good idea for me to be there, since Sherlock would see me and want to know why I'm there. He'd still probably recognize you, since I think that man must have photographic memory, but it's not strange for a cop to stop by a restaurant and eat."

Though he slightly expected otherwise, Anthony didn't protest. His mouth thinned for a second while he turned the thought over in his head and swallowed a mouthful of Newcastle. "I'm on restaurant duty, then. Excellent. We've got a bit of a plan. If I see them do anything, I'll take a photograph or video with my phone and send it to you. That works. You gonna do anything else?"

"Hm. I have a shit-ton of responsibilities on my shoulders, so there's not much room for me to do things… though I am by far the closest to Sherlock and John than anyone else. Well, I could invite John out for drinks occasionally like I already do and see if I can get anything out of him…. But I can't do that too often," he added, thinking and pausing with a sip of beer. "It'll seem too weird, and Sherlock'll suspect something. Once every other week is about the most often I can do that. And then Sherlock doesn't seem to leave 221b much for anything other than cases."

There was another long moment of silence until Anthony finally set his drink down again, but this time in a deciding manner. "Looks like this is all we'll have to go on, but I doubt any other team has a better plan."

* * *

Anderson flipped through television channels until he got to Doctor Who, which was when Sally joined him on the couch.

"I just ordered Chinese, so I hope that's what you're hungry for," she told him, getting comfortable next to him. "Once this episode is over, we should talk about strategies for John and the Freak."

He acknowledged what she'd said with a small "Hm," and continued to keep his attention on David Tennant and Billie Piper. Halfway through the episode, the Chinese food got there, and by the time the episode was over, they'd finished their food and Anderson felt slightly sick.

Not because of the Chinese, though. It was just that the Doctor reminded him so much of Sherlock, and yet he couldn't bring himself to dislike the Doctor. It happened every time he watched the show, and he was the only one who knew the real reason for his periodical queasiness.

"We should have a name for them," Sally said seemingly out of nowhere, sitting up straight and finishing off an egg roll.

"Hm?" Anderson looked to her and frowned.

"You know, like Brangelina. But for Sherlock and John. Just like—smush their names together. For a couple name." She smiled at her own idea and then started to think. "Shohn?"

"SherJohn," he proposed, smirking.

"Shwatson."

"What about both their last names? Holmeson?"

"Watolmes—nah…. Johnlock? Yeah, Johnlock really works. Come to think of it, adding anything to "lock" sounds good. I don't like him, but his name just _works_."

"Heh," Anderson laughed sharply, though nodding in agreement to the name Johnlock. "What kind of parent names their kid 'Sherlock,' anyway?"

"Ones that know their kid is going to grow up to be an arrogant freak. Can't really blame them, though."

"Yeah. Hey—we should be getting to work on plans and strategies and what have you—or else we're going to fall behind, and we _have_ to win."

* * *

"Gregson! You can't—if we get caught, we're out of the running, and the bet hasn't even started yet!"

Garth Bradstreet hurried after his matchmaker teammate but at the same time tried not to look suspicious. Even as cops, it wasn't the best idea to be wandering about at one in the morning. Tobias went on walking and didn't respond at first—until he was standing right across the street from 221b.

"And if we get caught, we can ask them what they're doing on Baker Street at this time of night, too. Besides, it technically _is _tomorrow, and we're only here to see what we're up against."

"But—you've been here before, haven't you? What's here that you haven't seen yet?"

"I've only ever been parked outside the place while inside the car, Bradstreet. I didn't get a proper look then, and I figured I should see what's going on at night here, too. There's a light on in one of the upstairs flats, see?"

Garth stood next to him and stuffed his hands in his pockets, hoping they wouldn't get numb from the cold. "What do you suppose Holmes is doing at this hour?"

"Shagging Watson, maybe?" Tobias suggested with a hopeful smirk, shrugging his shoulders. "Either that or doing drugs. There's been a drugs bust or two here before, I know that much. Do you think we could put cameras out here—oh." He'd turned around to look at the lamppost to see if it was a good place for surveillance, but then he saw that—"There's already cameras here." So it would be too suspicious and thus kind of impossible to set up cameras. _Dammit_.

"Well, there's a Speedy's right next to the place," Garth pointed out. "That looks good for staking out. Or maybe we could just commit a really elaborate crime to get Holmes to come out of his flat so we can get him and Watson to do something. It would probably be easier."

They both laughed, and at that point, Tobias had gone too long without a cigarette, so he didn't hesitate to light one. He contemplated the situation for a moment before turning to his partner and saying, "Right, then. Let's get going before Holmes decides to look out his window. We can tell Baynes everything in the morning."

* * *

**I know this chapter's a bit short, but I figured it was the best place to stop. Adding anything else would have been weird. Also, all the characters I have as members of teams or in the Audience are canon characters from the original novels. In the books, they were all Inspectors, but I decided to just keep Tobias Gregson as a Detective Inspector, and everyone else has different ranks in the Met for the purpose of being able to have canonical characters instead of having to come up with OCs.**

**Anyway, reviews are always appreciated, and I look forward to seeing your feedback!**


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